


Away

by hellkitty



Category: Elysium (2013)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA That Requisite Gratuitous PWP You All Knew Was Coming<br/>...*surprise*? Confession time, as will become EXCRUCIATINGLY obvious: I suck at writing human porn. Seriously. Robots? Man, I can write robots boinking ALL DAY (except for, you know, like having a *job* and otherwise having to be a productive member of society and all that bleh) but humans...nicht so sehr.<br/>Think of this more of an experiment in how far I can go before I can’t stop laughing at how bad I am at it.<br/>Confession 2: I don’t actually speak German.<br/>Confession 3: I’d feel guilty wasting your bandwidth with this increasingly bizarre headnote, but I know no one reads my Elysium fic. *FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOM* </p><p> </p><p> Max/Frey, stick--oh wait, all human porn is sticky porn.  WELL THEN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

Max learned in prison how to ‘go away’. Everyone had a different name for it, a different way, but anyone who’d spent time inside knew how to do it, how to send yourself away, send your mind to another place, any place that was better than here.

It had helped with the tedium, those long stretches of night, watching the lights shining in from the yard stretch long barred lines across the ceiling, when it almost hurt, like your entire body was simmering, just below a boil, with the knowledge that others were outside, listening to music, getting drunk, driving, doing any of a thousand things free people got to do.

And it helped with other times, too, escapes from the yard violence, all the petty brutalities you had to do to prove you were not be fucked with. When you didn’t want to be that person, when you didn’t want to be feeling what you were feeling, you just...went away.  

Max did not want to be where he was right now--any of it. He could feel the radiation, like oxyacetylene scouring his veins, sucking his strength, sucking his ability to even stand upright.  He could feel desperation, like a tight, cold fist, around his heart. He could feel the glare of the light, pinpricking his pupils.

And worse than all of them was knowing what was to come. Or rather, having just the iceberg-sliver idea of what he’d just agreed to do, to have done to him. He needed the suit. He needed to get to Elysium.  Nothing else mattered. Nothing else should matter.

Still, the whine of the reciprocating saw ate into his faith in that, and the murmuring patter of Spider’s crew, barely audible over the clanking equipment, the rustle of plastic, the revving of drills. He did not want to be here.  

But what choice did he have?  

It was something else to be gone through, gotten through, endured.  

A shadow over his face: Sandro, his face underlit from light reflecting off his apron. An apron, Max realized, to protect him from Max’s blood.  

“Hey. Got some prop and barbs, if you want.”

He gave a tiny nod. He didn’t care what they’d think of him: he was so far beyond that. If they thought he was a pussy for wanting to be someplace else when they were using those tools on his body, then so be it. They didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Just...surviving. That’s all that mattered.

He felt the pinch of the needle in the back of his hand, and then a cool burn, dragging him under. He surrendered to it, letting himself go limp, his eyes fade their vision, his mind swirling into the darkness as he pulled away from where he was…

...and took himself somewhere else.

[***]

He was leaning over her, feeling clean sheets under his palms, and she was reaching up to him, to cup his face. Frey, her eyes warm and beautiful as always, as though all that time between them slipped away, didn’t matter.  

She used to love him, at least, the way little boys and little girls could love, that fierce intensity of having only one thing, one person, who thinks you’re amazing, to whom you told all your secrets, all your dreams, to whom you bared every soft vulnerability without thought, without worry.

He’d lost it, he knew. She’d been to his sentencing, when he’d finally gotten caught, and as they’d led him away, weighted in chains (as if his broken spirit wasn’t heavy enough) he hadn’t been able to see more than a glimmer of the disappointment in her face, as he’d turned from Max Da Costa to...a prisoner number, a nobody, a nothing.

But after Elysium he’d have all that back. He would show her he was better than that, that he was trying to live right, to do right, however small. And he would have her, again, her eyes as open and warm as they used to be, not wary, not guarded, not turning away but lidding only as she pulled him downward to meet his mouth with hers in a kiss.

And he could taste her mouth, sweet and warm, almost intoxicating, and he could hear the soft sound in his own throat, partly a moan, partly a possessive growl, as he pushed into the kiss, his body held off hers for the moment, the kiss the only thing connecting them.  

Max could feel the fabric of his work jumpsuit, coarse and thick, a barrier between them. She’d be wearing...what?  A dress, he thought, a sundress like a girl in a magazine ad, the kind that tied on the shoulders with lacy bows, long ends dangling down to kiss her tanned shoulders.  Until he’d untie them himself, maybe with a hand, maybe with his teeth, slowly tugging the fabric free, tantalizing them both with the idea of her bare skin.  

It would be her place, of course. He couldn’t bring her back to his: it was an ex-con’s room, a place where you’d given up on privacy, on space, on the idea of personal things. But her place would be...all her. Breathing with Frey and her life, little touches of beauty everywhere. And she’d have a mattress that didn’t have that worn-down channel in the center that spoke of too many nights alone, and sheets without tears in them, without stains that couldn’t wash away. Hers wouldn’t be white, though--too hospital, too sterile. Something with patterns or flowers, he thought, pretty and soft under his hand as he bent over her, weight on one hand as he fumbled with the zipper of his jumpsuit, eager to peel his way out of it, press bare skin on skin.

“Max,” she’d say, her voice husky, inches from the kiss, her hands sliding along his collarbones, pushing the navy fabric aside, fingers catching in the undershirt, sliding down the straps. And that would be enough: she wouldn’t need to say anything else, just call his name, recognize him as Max, her Max, the one she’d taken a day off to see his last day of freedom.  

And her body would be beautiful, all sinuous lines and curves, dusky skin that would smell almost spicy and warm and clean.  Her fingertips would brush over his scalp, graze his ears, down his throat, until he wouldn’t be able to take it anymore and would sit up, high on his knees, to strip off the white shirt, tossing it aside recklessly, letting it land where it wanted: all he’d want to do was slide forward, unpeeling her from the sundress, and press himself against her, to feel the warm round swells of her breasts against the hard, flat muscle of his chest, feeling the hard nipples pressing into him as he slid one knee between her thighs.  

They’d be naked--taking off clothes after a while just became too tedious to draw out--and he’d slither down her body, feeling her fingers trail up his arms to his shoulders, as he planted a line of kisses down her belly, pausing for a moment over her heart, feeling the closeness of her breasts to him, breathing in her heartbeat, her scent, all of her, before moving down to nuzzle the soft rise of her belly, the join of her thigh into her hip.  

It would be like exploring a new country, listening to the shivering rise of her breath, feeling the taut tremor of her thighs under his touch, his own hands moving, almost wondering, over skin that felt like silk, that felt so unlike his own hairy, coarse muscle.  

And he’d feel his own desire, an ember of need slowly rising, burning hotter and hotter in his belly, feel his own breath juddering and uneven, his own hands, calloused and hard, worshipping her body, because it was hers, Frey’s, and making Frey happy was the most important thing in the world.  

Finally, finally, he’d be unable to hold back any longer, too surfeited on the sight of her, the smell and feel of her, the soft symphony of sounds and touches of her smaller fingers on his shoulders, idly tracing lines of his tattoos, and he’d surge forward, catching her mouth with his, one hand stroking the dark fall of her hair, his hips pressing against hers, pressing the hardness of his cock against her, grinding back blindly in search of the heat and wetness.  

She’d tip up to him, knees cradling his hips, arms twining around his shoulders, pulling him onto her, into her, and he’d feel himself slide home inside her.  

And it would turn urgent, then, need taking over, and he’d find himself thrusting into her, one hand braced on the mattress above her shoulder, hips driving against hers, and she’d lose herself in the need, too, hands turning to claws writing her want in long red lines down his back, giving throaty, longing cries with each thrust, unable to close her eyes.

He’d be unable to look away, this time, unlike at his sentencing, and he’d see the ecstasy build in her, in the shape of her mouth, in the flaring pupils of her dark eyes, in the way she clung to him, until her thighs would clamp around him, her heels pressing into the base of his spine, pinning him against her as her body rolled in a sinuous wave, her head tossing back to cry out his name.  

And he’d be almost electric with lust by then, her voice breaking down the last thin wall of resistance, and he’d lose himself in her voice, in the shuddering spasms of her against him, around him, pushing with one last, long thrust into her, enough to lift her hips, curl her belly against his, as he surrendered to it, and everything would drop away, their pasts, the future, everything except this moment, this pleasure, bright and sharp and blinding like a diamond, joining them.

[***]

  
And then he woke, and the light and heat were from the LA sun, smog-tarnished and thick, and as he looked at his arm, the black metal piercing it, puncturing into the bone, all he could feel was a sinkhole of something like despair that it would never, ever happen with Frey. Not like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> a) Nitpicking the use of propofol and barbituates as induction agents in PORN will get you a stern eyerolling. 
> 
> b) Literally written in 45 minutes before my yoga class, unbetad, unedited, so, yeah. LOWER THOSE EXPECTATIONS.
> 
> c) I know, I know, 'don't quit your day job'. :P


End file.
